


Something Along the Rise

by TrenchcoatRats



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Drama, Family Issues, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24484162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatRats/pseuds/TrenchcoatRats
Summary: After the cabin, Martin decides to take his chances and expand The Surgeon's hunting ground far outside of New York, taking Malcolm with him. Twenty years later, they're finally back home. A lot's changed since then, but just as much has stayed preserved, as if waiting for their return.
Relationships: Ainsley Whitly/Eve Blanchard
Comments: 12
Kudos: 43
Collections: Prodigal Whump Fic Exchange - Spring 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saviourhere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saviourhere/gifts).



Malcolm’s learned to appreciate the value of a system. It keeps things together, helps them flow smoothly. If you keep to the system, it helps keep you from making a mistake, from getting caught. A small deviation wasn’t bad though, it mixed things up just enough, could keep you fresh on your feet. Just make sure that you aren’t misjudging a small deviation to be a large one, being overly cautious can lead to stagnation. But this...this isn’t a small deviation. A small deviation is moving states, deciding to go into New York from their last stay in Georgia. It’s physically large, but ultimately it’s harmless. The system stays the same regardless of state lines. But, what’s in his pocket may be physically small, but it looms over him. He keeps darting his hand into his pocket and feeling it, not believing that it’s real. But it’s just as solid this time as it was the last several times. His dad’s scalpel rests comfortably in his pocket, in his _grip_ even, and he still has no idea why it’s there. 

For as long as he could remember, his dad had always kept this scalpel around. Sure he dabbled with others, maybe even temporarily set it to the side in favor of something just as sharp and fine, just as pain inducing, but he’d always go back to that one scalpel before long. He remembers being a kid in the backseat of the station wagon and watching the way the light and shadows danced on the seats and wondering how the scalpel would shine and cast its own shadows if it was out. His dad’s always been The Surgeon, but Malcolm thinks his dad used to be an actual surgeon, some kind of doctor that could play at being a higher power in a way pediatricians and nurses just can’t. His dad used to say that looking after Malcolm was a fulltime job, but maybe somewhere in the nebulous void of “before”, Malcolm was right. 

But “before” was a hazy mess at most. He knew that there was a before, that it hadn’t always just been him and his dad. He remembers feeling bewildered at being told they didn’t have enough money for something, remembers missing his “old” school, and almost right out of his reach was a memory of being tucked into a bed that was too stiff for him and looking up at his dad and telling him that he wanted his mother.

He doesn’t remember what his dad told him, but it was probably the same thing he’d said time and time again when Malcolm was a kid, before he’d just give Malcolm a look and smile at him like he’d done something silly by not remembering. 

“Something happened, an accident,” he’d said, looking remorseful. “I thought a chance to get away, to start anew, would be just what we both needed.”

It was almost maddeningly unhelpful in its vagueness, but Malcolm had since made his peace with it. Every time he’d caught his dad withholding information from him, it always would have been better had he not found it out.

Malcolm picks up his pace at that, briskly walking along the sidewalk as if he can outrun memories. He’s making good time to meet his father for breakfast, with any luck he’ll make it there first. He pulls out his phone to double check the next street he’ll have to turn at, thankful for the hotel awning he’s under for providing enough shade that he can read his phone without adjusting the brightness. A quarter mile to go, then 500 feet and on his right. He tucks his phone away, picking up the pace with enthusiasm. 

He’d just gotten past the awning when there’s a loud ripping sound.

Followed by a rapid series of terribly loud cracks and snaps.

Malcolm pauses for a second in confusion before turning around. It’s a man, a dead man. Already blood’s starting to pool around the man, Malcolm’s close enough to get a good whiff of the smell and he scrunches his nose up.

He’s never been a fan of that smell, despite how familiar he is with it.

The man’s face is tilted, giving Malcolm a view of his expression. The look of terror would have been easy to spot even if it wasn’t an expression Malcolm had memorized by heart. He’s yet to come across a person that actually wanted to die in the way that they were about to. But there was also, interestingly enough, surprise there as well. Maybe he had second thoughts, maybe he didn’t think jumping off a building would feel like it did. But neither of those feel right to him. 

He doesn’t know the man, doesn’t have any stake in what’s happened to him, but he’s tempted to say that he was pushed, even with there being no tangible evidence of such. He’s torn between wanting to get a closer look and wanting to get as far away from it as possible when a man’s scream gets his attention. Malcolm’s head jerks up from its spot looking at the body to see a horrified crowd gathered on the other side of the body, several of the people there having their phones out. He can make out at least two separate voices asking for the NYPD and his choice is made for him.

If he leaves now, the police might be interested enough in finding him that they start looking for him. He internally groans, realizing now that he’s most certainly going to be late for breakfast.

He and cops have never had the best track record, after all.

* * *

Malcolm’s twelve when he met his first cop. He’s stuck sick in bed in the motel they were staying at, still tucked in from when his dad had come in and taken his temperature with a worried look. He didn’t know how long ago his dad left to get medication for him, time passed in a haze and he didn’t have the strength to lift himself up and reach for the alarm clock on the nightstand. He just wanted to fall back asleep, to wait until his dad came back and hopefully feel better. But the neighbors next door hadn’t stopped screaming or banging around. Their noise made his head burn with pain, and he just barely managed to hang his head over the side of the bed to dry heave into the trash can. 

His dad had turned off all the lights and drawn the curtains before he left but the room was still too bright. Malcolm put his head back on the pillow, shut his eyes, and tried to block out the noise with his hands over his ears. Some time later, the banging managed to get even louder. It’s not until the third series of bangs that he realizes it’s coming from the front door.

Maybe his dad needed help opening the door, arms full with groceries. Malcolm groaned as he got out of bed, immediately sent into a coughing fit by the noise. He stumbled to the door, lifting the bolt off before unlocking the door and opening it.

The man there is not his father.

He had a mustache where Malcolm’s dad now has a clean shaven face, blond hair peeking out from a cap, and a pair of shades covering his eyes. He took them off to stare down at Malcolm, who instantly wished he’d just stayed in bed. 

“Where’re your parents?” The man asked, peering over Malcolm into the motel room.

Malcolm eyed the badge on the man’s shirt and gulped, setting off another coughing fit. The officer looked down at him in bewilderment and said nothing. When he could breathe again he wheezed out, “My dad’s not here, he’s getting medicine.”

“What about your mom?”

He’s hit with a longing pain that has yet to fully go away. He missed his mom so much, he loved his dad but he missed getting to have one of her hugs, his favorite being when his dad was holding him and they were all squeezed together. After Ainsley’d been born it started getting a bit too cramped though. And now he’d never get one of them again, with or without Ainsley.

He shook his head and the officer sighed, gently nudging Malcolm by to come into the room. Malcolm didn’t want to let him in, felt like the man was trespassing as soon as he opened the door, but he could barely walk, let alone tell the officer to leave without coughing a lung out mid sentence. 

The officer looked around, as if the source of the disturbance would pop out from the bathroom or behind the dresser. Malcolm gently edged around the officer, moving himself back towards the bathroom counter, giving him a perfect view of the door he left opened.

“How long’d you say your dad’s been gone?” Malcolm hadn’t. He didn’t know.

“I-I don’t know, I was taking a nap.” The officer didn’t even look at him and Malcolm got the feeling the man didn’t care about what he was saying. Malcolm nudged the small pile of his clothes from last night’s shower with a foot, his eyes widening when it connected with something solid. His knife, he realized with a jolt. He must have forgotten to take it out of his pants before he went to bed. 

The man’s still going through the room, as if he’s searching for something. Malcolm didn’t like that; he _really_ didn’t like that. The cornered terror feels familiar to him in a sickening way as he slowly bends down to get the knife. He doesn’t know what he’ll do with it other than get the officer to back off, to leave and get out of this second home his dad has for them both.

There’s a sound from the distance, but Malcolm could barely hear it over the blood pounding in his head. He wanted his dad. He just wanted his dad.  
  
“Malcolm?!” As if his prayers were answered, he heard his dad yell his name, someone coming up the stairs quickly, and finally, blessedly, his father rushing up to the door frame, breathing raggedly. He visibly relaxed seeing Malcolm almost directly across him from the other side of the room, only to tense back up again as the officer moved towards the door frame to see who it was.

“Officer, is there-is there a problem?” His dad’s eyes darted from the officer to Malcolm, freezing when they registered the knife still held loosely in Malcolm’s hand. But after a second, he’s back to smiling at the man, like nothing was wrong.

“We got a call about a disruption, some kind of violent fight breaking out. Is it just you and your son here?”

His dad nodded, smiling sadly. “It’s just the two of us. But, I’m afraid I’m still rather confused as to the nature of the visit. Malcolm’s been in bed sick all day and we haven’t gotten the chance to invite company over lately.”

The officer took off his cap to scratch at his head. “Maybe he had the TV on too loud? It was definitely apartment 13C that I got the complaint about, though.”

Immediately his dad lit up in understanding. “That’d be our next door neighbors, I’m afraid. Though they seem to have worn themselves out by now, this is 13D.”

The officer looked incredibly bashful and Malcolm wondered why he was so afraid of that man if his dad got him to back down that quickly. As the officer apologized, he slipped the knife back into his pocket and moved to sit on the edge of his bed, now processing the sheer weight of _whatever that just was_ he had even considered.

As soon as the door shut, his dad ran over to him. He’s squeezed tightly into a hug and Malcolm realizes that this is the most unnerved he’s ever seen his dad. It’s hard to breathe with the pressure but he’s not about to tell his dad that, they both need this. 

“When I saw that open door...I’m so glad you’re alright, I thought I lost you for a minute.” 

“Dad,” Malcolm croaks out, his throat burning from sickness and a sob starting to bubble up. “I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.” He clutched onto his dad tightly.

His dad shushed him gently and rocked him in his arms. “Oh, Malcolm, oh no. I am so proud of you, my boy. You haven’t done anything wrong, not a thing.” 

Malcolm tried to protest, tried to tell his dad that he shouldn’t be proud of Malcolm and _why,_ but it’s drowned out in another coughing fit. His dad rubbed his back comfortingly before leaning down for the grocery bag.

“Here, now. Got you some medicine for your throat, it’ll taste nasty but you’ll feel better in no time. Let’s get you tucked in first.” He helped guide Malcolm into bed and got him a glass of water to rinse the taste out of the liquid medicine.

Malcolm gagged at the taste, gratefully reaching for the bottle after he’d finished his dose. 

“Good news is, that’s supposed to knock you right out. By the time you wake up tomorrow, you’ll be better than ever. And, as a treat, I bought us ice cream to have in the morning.”

Malcolm’s already too worn out to respond, but when he saw his dad pull out the tub of vanilla heath bar, he grinned. It was their favorite flavor and he hadn’t gotten the chance to have any in a long time. It was the best get better present he could have asked for.

Though the medicine did have him passed out in record time, Malcolm slept very uneasily that night, his dreams melding the weight of the knife with the fear he felt, that the man who hardly looked at him had planned on hurting him, killing him, until eventually it shifted and he was running, terror and adrenaline drenching him and weighing him down in a way that sweat just couldn’t.

* * *

The sound of police sirens jolt him out of his thought process and he starts drumming his hand against his leg. He can hope it’ll go well, hope that maybe the cop will see him and dismiss him for any of the other people at the scene, the ones that might look better for getting a testimony out of. 

When the car pulls up to the curb and a woman steps out, dressed in dark colors, with dark curly hair falling just past her shoulders, and an NYPD badge on her belt, he puts his hopes to the side.

Sure enough, she starts walking right for him. 

His father’s going to kill him and Malcolm almost wishes it would be with the scalpel rather than disappointed looks and a lecture.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm Bright and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day continues, with 400% more attempted murder before the day's even done.

“My name’s Detective Dani Powell, I’m with the NYPD and I’m gonna need all of you to step back.” She gestures to the crowd, which shuffles back obediently. After watching them do as she told, she turns to the body and sighs, reaching for her radio.

Malcolm doesn’t hear what she says into it, suddenly distracted by his phone buzzing in a rapid, repetitive pattern. That’d be his dad then, wondering where he’s at. After it finally stops, there’s a few seconds of silence, probably when a potentially passive aggressive voicemail is recorded, but then it immediately resumes. He groans at his misfortune, which to add a cherry on top of his ice cream sundae of misery, got the detective’s attention.

“Sir, are you okay?” She looks genuinely worried, though it may just be at the idea of him contaminating the crime scene by blowing chunks. But the sight of a corpse has long since stopped making him feel sick. 

“Oh yeah, yeah I’m fine. Just, not how I wanted to start my morning, y’know?”

She smiles and huffs out a laugh. “Don’t suppose you saw what happened.”

He makes a so-so motion, hoping she can’t see his hand trembling faintly. Hoping that if she does, she just writes it off as adrenaline, a stress reaction from a totally traumatic event. “Saw it? No, but heard it and almost felt it? That’s a yes. I was maybe forty feet away when he,” He makes a squished sound effect, “...landed.”

Detective Powell pulls out a notepad and pen, taking the cap off with her teeth. He watches her distractedly chew on it as she finishes jotting down his incredibly helpful statement and wonders if he could be done here yet. But she pulls it out after she’s finished writing and he knows he’s not.

“Alright, what’s your name, sir?”

He blinks rapidly, startled. “Am I...Am I in trouble?”

Detective Powell stares at him, then up through the torn awning at the several stories above them, where the body had fallen from and almost fallen onto him, then finally back down at him with a raised eyebrow. He’s glad that she didn’t outright call him an idiot at least. 

“No, you aren’t in trouble. I’m just making sure I have everything down in the statement that I need.”

“This isn’t going to make it on the news somehow, is it? My dad’ll kill me.” He feels every one of his thirty-two years saying that. Detective Powell does an understandable doubletake.

“...No, this won’t go anywhere near the news, this is just for our records.” The idea of his information just laying around in a file somewhere unsettles him. Call it a serial killer by proxy’s intuition. But there’s not much he can do about it.

“Malcolm Bright.” He says, tone bright with cooperation.

“And...address?” 

He knows his address, doesn’t matter that he hasn’t even lived there for a week. He’d memorized it and his dad’s new apartment on the trip into New York. But his apartment is his own space, as of right now he’s the only one that has a key for it. He’d like to keep that scrap of independence as long as he can.

“I...don’t really know? I just moved here from out of state, I kinda just wander around until I think I see the right building.” 

Detective Powell looks at him, the man who claimed to have almost been squashed by the body of the man who jumped from the building, the man who somehow thought that he could be considered a suspect, the man who _has_ to be an adult, at least her age, who sounded as worried about getting in trouble with his dad as a high schooler who threw too big of a party at his house. She looks at him, really looks, and finds his explanation actually being plausible. The guy was an absolute mess, hand twitching and tapping against his thigh like he’d chugged an espresso and was running on three hours of sleep.

She sighs, wishing that Gil and JT would hurry over, wanting this to be over and done with. “You got a phone number then Mr. Bright?”

“Oh, sure! Mr. Bright, though, that’s my father. Don’t have that many grey hairs yet.” He awkwardly smiles at the detective, who at this point just looks tired. He rattles off the number apologetically.

He’s had that one since he got his first flip phone way back as a kid. Dangerous in an age of surveillance, probably, but so was just about everything he did. Sometimes sentimentality was worth the risk.

Detective Powell caps her pen and tucks it and the notebook away. “Thank you for all of your help, we’ll give you a call if we need anything else.”

Malcolm smiles in relief at her, before starting to turn around and make his way to the diner. 

“Don’t get lost trying to find your place tonight, Bright.” The detective calls out to him, humor plain in her voice.

Malcolm laughs to himself as he walks off, only to stop. She called him Bright... that could technically be a nickname, couldn’t it? He hasn’t had one of those in _years_. Biting back a smile, he picks up his pace. 

It hardly matters that the most it’ll do at this point is shave off precious seconds of time. His phone hasn’t stopped vibrating this whole time, he’ll need every extra second he can get.

When he opens the door to the diner, an overhead bell ringing cheerfully, he scopes out the different customers. It’s mostly older couples, or parents with their kids, and the few solitary patrons all look wrong, too young, too old, until he catches one’s eyes. He’s looking right at the entrance, right at Malcolm, positioned in a booth towards the back. From there, he’d have a good view of almost everyone in the diner, the perfect spot for someone like his father.

He walks over, smiling tightly at a waitress who passes by. “The red hair’s new,” he says in lieu of an actual greeting. His dad’s rocking the clean shaven look again, combined with the dye giving him a genuine seeming ginger, looks at least a decade younger than he actually is. 

Instead of actually answering his son, his father gestures to the food that must’ve just arrived. He’s got a plate of waffles with sausages on the side and a small fruit cup next to it. His dad did tend to have a fuller breakfast when they were eating at vegan kosher places. Malcolm’s own plate, in contrast, is a stack of pancakes with whipped cream for hair and a nose, with blueberry eyes and smile. 

If he had to guess, it was probably ordered after the third missed call. Though he’s glad that he got here while it was still hot. His dad’s looking at him expectantly, which steps back with a satisfied nod as soon as Malcolm says thanks. They both get started on their food in silence, Malcolm sips his strawberry lemonade and winces at the tartness, reaching for more than ten sugar packets to dump in. His dad, meanwhile, starts with the sausages and looks delighted at the flavor. 

After the sausages have been thoroughly savored, his dad leans back and looks at Malcolm. Here it comes, the lecture to end all lectures.

But it doesn’t come.

“Malcolm,” his dad starts, warmth present in his voice. It’s as comforting as it is off-putting.

He leans forward, grabbing a fork to start on his waffles. As if a lecture’s not coming. And it doesn’t. It’s, arguably, worse.

“What’re the rules?” His dad looks at him expectantly over his plate of waffles.

Malcolm glances around before leaning in to hiss, “Are you serious? Right now?”

“Sorry, my boy. If I can’t trust you to remember them, I have to put you on the spot in front of the class. So, the rules?” He spears a piece of his food and chews it, moving his fork in an expecting way.

Malcolm sighs and straightens up. “Always respond to your messages, I have the phone for a reason. Breakfast is at 10:30, dinner’s at 7:00, if I’m going to be late I need to call and let you know why. If it can’t fit in the car, it’s not coming with us. If there’s deviation, don’t let it be a big one.” His dad ticks off each one as Malcolm runs through them, “You matter and I matter. And, we’re the same.”

“Got them in one go. So, why don’t you go ahead and tell me what held you up this time? Must have been pretty important.”

“I was giving a statement to the police.” Before he can even rush into an elaboration, his dad freezes with a piece of fruit inches from his mouth.  
  
“Come again.” Malcolm’s just glad his dad’s holding a fork and not a glass, his grip is suddenly tight enough that it would have shattered.

“I’m not in trouble or anything, just nearly got crushed from some guy that jumped twelve stories. I was only a couple feet past his impact spot when it happened. I gave the detective my statement and that was it, that’s all she wanted.”

His dad hums in thought. “What’d you think of her?”

“She was-she was nice? I guess? Probably good at her job and—” He suddenly realizes what his dad’s getting at. “Absolutely not! No way!”

“C’mon Malcolm, don’t be like that, it’s 2019, you should shoot your shot!”  
  
“ _Shoot my —_?! I only just met her _and_ she. Is. A. Cop!”

To anyone else, it must seem like a father encouraging his son to get out into the dating world. As much as Malcolm’s protesting the actual topic, he’s relieved that his dad isn’t trying to set him up with anyone. Compared to how merciless he was needling Malcolm in the weeks before senior prom, he is practically a gentle lamb while encouraging his son to murder a police officer. Or, at least to _strongly_ consider murdering a police officer.

“Fine, fine,” His father holds up his hands in surrender, but Malcolm knows better than to think the topic is dropped. “but there’s plenty of fish in the sea, my boy. You just have to...cast your line. Hook them.”

Malcolm cuts into his pancakes, now almost room temperature, in lieu of answering. The whipped cream was starting to look more like a frothy, white soup. “And what if I hate fishing?”

His dad groans, setting his fork onto the plate loudly. “Well you could always go for a hunting metaphor, not _quite_ with the times anymore but then again...you did enjoy camping with me, it might connect with you more on a sentimental level.”

Malcolm pauses, looking up in confusion. “We went camping?”

His dad stares at him for a moment, like he’s expecting Malcolm to laugh and say he’s just kidding. But when there’s silence and absolute confusion on Malcolm’s face, he reaches for his iced tea and takes a long drink. “Uhm, yes? We had a guys’ weekend when you were a kid. Do you really not remember?” He looks genuinely hurt.

“I’m sorry.”

“Makes sense though. That was about the time of—” his dad makes a face and Malcolm understands immediately, it’s shorthand for “The Accident”. Malcolm slips one of his hands off of the table, letting it spasm and tremble in his lap in relative peace. 

“Anyways, did you get a copy of your apartment’s keys yet?” His dad sips at his iced tea, letting the straw make an obnoxious slurping sound.

Malcolm groans in dismay, but his dad’s not having it. He holds his hand out until Malcolm reluctantly drops his one and only key into it.

“Looks like we’ll just have to make a stop at the nearest hardware store. We can catch up on our missed father-son bonding.”

“It hasn’t even been four days since I last saw you.”

“Is a father not allowed to spend time with his one and only son? His flesh and blood? His bright star in a dim universe? His—”

“Okay, I get it. You don’t have to guilt me, you know.”

“Oh but Malcolm, I really do, you make it so _easy_.” 

The two of them laugh, Malcolm while rolling his eyes and Martin with a look of absolute delight as he stares at his son.

His dad pays the bill without even letting Malcolm have the chance to protest, cheerfully telling the employees on their way out that they’ll be getting a glowing Yelp review. 

“Wanna drive the station wagon?” His dad jingles the keys obnoxiously.

“Aside from the obvious lack of driver’s license, that thing is a death trap. I don’t know how it’s even still alive at this point, it’s been frankensteined so many times.”

His dad jingles the keys again. Malcolm sighs, “Fine, hand them over.”

They’re tossed underhanded to him with a grin. “C’mon my boy, think of it as a homecoming gift!”

Malcolm snorts as he gets in the driver’s side, adjusting the seat. “You know, it really says something about the childhood I had if you’re calling the car our home.”

With a sound that started as close to a scream as Malcolm thinks a car can sound, the old car starts up and begins to slowly drag itself out of its parking spot. Malcolm glanced at the dashboard clock and sighs in relief. Even if his dad drags out this outing, which he absolutely will, he should still have plenty of time to make it over to the house for his interview. 

* * *

It could almost be called a gift, his father’s way of drawing things out. In their private life, it manifests as long nights filled with his father’s voice. First general monologuing, followed by a respectful silence where a person’s last words were heard. What follows is several hours of dual screaming and lecturing, as his father slowly takes apart what once made that person a human being with meticulous detail.

When Malcolm was a kid, he would have called it excruciating detail, but now it’s both a macabre pun and one from a low hanging branch.

When he was first starting out, his dad just had him watch. Just watch and listen. But soon it escalated, an evolving performance for the main event. He’d draw Malcolm closer and closer, to look at a particular incision he was making, or to come over and judge the state of someone’s internal organs. Eventually, they fell into a rhythm. But by his high school years, Malcolm no longer had the ample free nights to spectate, he had homework he had to do.

So his father went thrifting for a desk. Malcolm would do his homework, respond to any questions he was asked throughout the process, and when he was done with his homework _ **—**_ he _always_ had it finished before his father was done _ **—**_ he’d head over and make cuts of his own, small ones, baby steps, his dad called them. By the end of his freshman year, Malcolm’d gotten up to five before he couldn’t do it anymore. By the end of his sophomore year, he’d more than tripled that and stopped crying. His junior year marked the end of his dad locking the door behind Malcolm when they made their way into their workspace, Malcolm’d started calling it _their_ workspace.

His senior year marked his eighteenth birthday, where at midnight on the dot he was handed his dad’s scalpel to make the first cut. He’d accepted with a roll of his eyes, his dad not having been particularly subtle about there being a surprise birthday present in the days leading up to it.

The vast majority of his years in public education had been split between the time spent with his dad and the time spent with The Surgeon and his victims. He had virtually no friends, especially none that he’d ever bring home to hang out with. The one time he’d really tried branching out socially had been beyond disastrous, and he wasn’t eager to revisit anything like that again. All this basically meant that his father took time making this the slowest of seductions as possible. He loved the attention it got him from Malcolm, the increased _fear_ of his victims. In their final moments, Malcolm became his father’s will and the victims his testament.

But in the public eye, this manifested just as in depth, though with a noticeably lower body count. A simple twenty minute visit to a hardware store turned into more than two and half hours of conversation between his dad and the owner of the store. As it turns out, the shop they stopped in at was a second-generation father-son business, a fact his father immediately delighted in learning about. He’d let Malcolm spend a blessed fifteen minutes looking at the same row of screws before he called him over to show him off. 

His dad leaves with an arm slung around Malcolm, a promised discount on a future purchase from the store owner, and a matching key to Malcolm’s new apartment.

Thankfully, his dad drives on the way back, unfortunately switching maddeningly between a station playing the current top pop hits and a station that plays nothing but music from the 70s and earlier. Short car rides are unpleasant in the station wagon, with its' habitual AC failure, the tape stuck in the tape deck for the last sixteen years, and the erratic changing of radio stations, but long car rides, Malcolm would argue, are the worst agony The Surgeon’s capable of doling out.

But his pain, unlike many others’, is relieved quickly when they pull up to his apartment and his dad gives him a hug goodbye, but gets back into the car rather than walking into the building with Malcolm. 

“I’ve got some things I’ve still got to pick up, to help with settling in.” He says, by way of apology.

Malcolm’s just glad he’s still got almost a full hour and a half to get ready and get over to the house. By the time he climbs the stairs up to his place, he has two text notifications from his father. The first one’s a screenshot of the same diner they’d left a few hours ago, presumably meaning that they’d be eating there again next time they met for breakfast. The second one’s a GIF, of the Muppets Gonzo and Kermit hugging. 

He responds with a thumbs up emoji and puts his phone away for the time being. He doesn’t have to rush, but he does have to move quickly. He passes by his wall collage of postcards, a record of every town, city, and state he’d ever visited. All in all, it takes up as much space in his bags as his clothes as of this most recent move. He still has yet to get one for New York, but it’s not like his options are limited. He throws his top in the laundry bag, gently yanking his black dress shirt off its hanger. His dark grey dress pants and slightly worn black dress shoes give the appearance of middle class, suburban, college educated, and most importantly: “no my father is not the most prolific serial killer in current,, and possibly all of, American history.”

First impressions, he’s learned, are incredibly important. 

His driver on the way over is nice enough, plays quiet music and makes polite conversation that drifts off into comfortable silence. He plans on giving them 5 stars regardless. The neighborhood’s nice, as delightfully plain as a name like “Sycamore Lane” would suggest. If this is anything like the other part time jobs he’d picked up, he’d have an interview with the parents, followed by a supervised meeting with the child he’d be tutoring. The mother had made a note that her daughter was shy around strangers, apparently a result of being teased by her peers for her vitiligo, but that as long as she wasn’t pushed she would open up on her own time.

He can see 3131 from here and he sits up straighter in his seat, hoping to get a good look of the outside of the house, any decorations or toys that were laying about to help him get a better idea of what the parents were looking for. He could catch a glimpse of what looked like a swingset, as well as smell what was probably a barbeque, even through the closed windows. The car rolls to a stop and he gets out, running a hand along his shirt to smooth out any creases that had formed on the ride over. He moves to shut the door with a smile to his driver only to freeze.

There’s a cop car pulled up nearby. 

He can’t see anyone in it, which could mean anything. But he’s about hit his limit of snags in his day he can handle.

“Everything alright?” The driver says, jolting Malcolm out of the slowly building dread he’d been developing.

He nods and shuts the door without a word, hoping to be proven wrong as he makes his way up towards the house. The hope is thoroughly dashed though when he hears a voice from the backyard yell for an ambulance. On instinct, he sprints back there, only to freeze at the sight before him.

A man collapsed by the grill, a woman and child sitting face down at the picnic table, another child laying face down in the dirt, a horribly familiar woman is searching for a pulse with one hand, while the other grabs onto her police radio.

“Detective Powell?!” He’s already moving as he calls her name, not seeing her head shoot up or the shocked expression on her face. He’s examining the kid at the picnic table, checking for a pulse.

“ _Bright_?! What the hell are you doing here?” She’s multitasking too, carefully turning the child on the ground over and trying desperately to figure out what she can do to help, to figure out how everything went so wrong so fast. 

He lets out a shaky laugh. “I had an interview to be a tutor here, looks like that’s not a possibility though.” He cuts down to business. “What happened here?”

“Dad’s an illegitimate child, murdered bio dad’s family and poisoned everyone here with the food as soon as I got here.” Her panic loosens details from the case she shouldn’t be handing out, but she doesn’t care if it helps somehow, in any way. 

It’s not enough, that still leaves too many possibilities open. “How did he kill them? Did he poison them too?”

She doesn’t even hesitate to answer. “It was-it was a metoprolol overdose.”

_Metoprolol_. Now that, he can work with. “They’ll need something like atropine, something to boost their heart rate!”

“I’ve got a medkit in my car, just go, it’s unlocked!” He’s through the gate before she even finishes.

She’s doing chest compressions on the kid on the ground when he gets back and he notices her neck. Malcolm realizes, with a jolt, that the girl dying on the ground right in front of him was the one he was supposed to work with. 

He hasn’t felt horror standing over a body in a very long time, but kids...kids are _different_. They should never look like this, should never be put in this position by the very people they’re meant to trust. 

Malcolm turns away suddenly and vomits over the other side of the fence. As soon as it’s out though, he’s already stumbling back over, grabbing a syringe from the kit and handing it off to Detective Powell.

“Jab her in the upper leg, go for the soft tissue.” He gets out, hurrying over to the mother and child. He gets the child first, gently turning them over after he administers the shot, then the mother.

Now there’s just the father left. He can hear the further away sounds of a child sharply inhaling, of Detective Powell reassuring her that everything’s alright and the closer sounds of the other daughter and their mother regaining consciousness. He wants to look over them, make sure they’re all okay. But his attention is focused on the father.

He’s still gasping for breath, holding on longer than any other members of his family members from losing consciousness. Malcolm flashes quickly through all the bodies he’s had to stand over all the years, watching them gasp or wheeze or somehow still manage to plead for help that he could never give them. He always felt pity for them, wishing that they could have died quicker and more peacefully if they weren’t going to get home alive.

But he feels no pity for this man.

Instead he holds the syringe in one hand tightly and remembers what he has.

He has his father’s scalpel.

Malcolm wonders if choosing feels so heady a choice for his father too. His free hand clenches and unclenches as he slowly crouches down to the father’s level.

The man’s eyes, barely able to stay open, water when he manages to focus on the syringe. “Don’t-don’t. Please don’t...I don’t-I don’t want to live.”

Malcolm listens to it in silence, the same with all other final words.

And then he smiles, something beautiful bright that clashes with the dead expression in his eyes. 

This man deserves the worst of The Surgeon’s pain...and Malcolm’s going to give it to him.

He jabs the syringe into the man’s thigh, watching him twitch as he realizes what’s just happened and he begins to cry.

The worst pain that he’s seen his father give any of his victims...the knowledge that their wishes mean nothing, that they mean _nothing_.

He’ll live the rest of his life knowing that, which is the most fitting fate Malcolm can give.

Malcolm stands up slowly and turns his back on the unconscious father, takes in the sight of the mother with her two children as she embraces them both tightly. They’re alive, they’re safe, they’re what matter here now.

Detective Powell watches the scene with a smile on her face, the sounds of approaching sirens growing louder in the background. She meets Malcolm’s gaze and mouths “Thank you.”

He nods and smiles. Tries to ignore the lingering horror and anger in his chest. Tries to ignore how he felt having that power over a vile man’s fate being in his hands only a few minutes earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author would like to note that the tag "Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug" was in no way satisfied by Malcolm being sent a GIF of hugging muppets by his serial killer father.  
> that said, i had a Lot of fun writing chapter 2 (even though i Did accidentally fall asleep before actually posting it)  
> if you enjoyed it, please consider leaving a kudos or comment! and thank you to everyone who's done so already!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions and reintroductions! Some of them good, some of them complicated, some of them boding very poorly.

It’s only a few minutes until the ambulance and backup arrive, but it feels like an eternity. With one notable exception, Malcolm’s never been around for the “after” of any crime. Seeing the survivors try to recover and put themselves back together after an unthinkable event, he feels like he’s intruding on something sacred. They’d probably be dead if he wasn’t here, but because he was here, the father would live another day, many more probably. He would go on trial, be sentenced, and remain a haunting presence over his family. 

His moment of righteous fury made sure the father would suffer, but it could just as well mean his daughters do too. They might never get the chance to truly be free of what happened here because of him.

That sobering realization wars with the lingering intense feelings of pride and pleasure, his own choice and actions over another person’s life for the first time, start to finish. It’s funny too, how the only person who could understand his feelings, the only person he could tell about this, is the one he’ll never be able to tell. His dad would flip if he ever heard about this, that Malcolm had wound up in another situation with the police while trying to make money of his own. Like the money that was set aside in the account for him—the balance precisely monitored through text alerts on his father’s phone—wasn’t good enough for him.

There’s a car pulling up to the driveway, lights flashing. The ambulance is only seconds behind it. He’s made his choices now, it’s out of his hands. Unless he wants to be riding in the backseat of a police car, which fails to be appealing if he’s being honest.

Two officers get out of the car, both rushing over. Detective Powell meets them halfway. “Gil, JT, situation’s under control. Found our perp, Aristos’ illegitimate son. He tried poisoning himself and his family, just like he did with Aristos’ family, he’s unconscious but alive right now. We might want to send them to the hospital to make sure it’s cleared out of their systems.”

One of the cops, a man with short black hair and furrowed brows takes in who “them” is. “He tried to kill his _kids_? Shit. As if already knocking off one side of his family wasn’t bad enough.”

A son wanting his father’s love and validation badly enough that he killed his father’s family and then his own...He can’t tell if he understands the man more now or if that just makes him even angrier. Malcolm looks back at the mother and children and sighs. “The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children,” he mutters.

The cop turns to look at him, evidently hearing Malcolm perfectly well. “Please tell me you aren’t the long lost _third_ son.”

Malcolm laughs awkwardly. “Nope, only child here.”

He looks legitimately relieved at the news. “Who the hell are you then?”

“This is Malcolm Bright, he was supposed to be here as a tutor. Just picked a hell of a time to arrive.” Detective Powell cuts in smoothly, Malcolm gives her a grateful look. “This is Detective JT Tarmel,” she gestures with her shoulder to the man Malcolm was talking with, “And that’s Lieutenant Gil Arroyo over there.”

The lieutenant’s busy putting handcuffs on their still unconscious murderer to even respond. When he finishes, rather than head over to his two subordinates, he heads for the family at the table. He takes off his sunglasses and Malcolm’s struck by how incredibly _kind_ this man’s eyes are. He bends down to the kids’ eye levels when he talks to them, quietly enough that Malcolm can’t hear the words. Whatever it is has the two kids eventually giving him two small smiles from their places at their mother’s side. Lieutenant Arroyo grins back at them, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out two pieces of candy. He looks at the mother for approval and hands them over as soon as she gives it. As the two kids happily tear into their new treats, he can make out the mother quietly saying “Thank you”, tears in her eyes.

Malcolm tears his gaze away after that and notices the detectives doing the same.

Lieutenant Arroyo comes their way after a minute, looking puzzled at Malcolm’s presence. 

Malcolm reaches into his pocket and pulls out a well-loved book to cut out the handshake part of an introduction. “Malcolm Bright, would be English tutor, currently out of luck.”

Detective Tarmel turns to look at the cover. “ _Count of Monte Cristo_? I read that thing back in high school, are these kids even old enough to read?”

“Never too early to start on the classics,” Malcolm smiles. He’s had this book as long as he can remember, he might have been even younger than these kids when his dad started reading it to him.

“Bright helped administer the atropine, I don’t know that I would have known what to do in time if it wasn’t for him.” Detective Powell states. Malcolm stares at her in surprise at the honest admission.

Lieutenant Arroyo gives his thanks and Detective Tarmel looks at him with something like respect. Malcolm’s torn between accepting the praise or just hopping the fence and gunning for it.

The day’s not even over, but he’s suddenly hit by a wave of exhaustion.

“I’ll follow behind the ambulance with Littman in tow, make sure they’re all checked out and healthy. Dani, JT, the two of you drop Bright off and meet me over at the hospital when you’re done.

Malcolm holds up his hands, one still holding his book, in alarm. “No need! I can just call a rideshare, you really don’t have to bother yourselves over this.”

Detective Powell rolls her eyes and smiles. “It’s fine, you’ve been a huge help today, let us say thanks. We can even stop by and get you coffee on the way back, free of charge. You look like you need it.”

She’s not wrong. She’s really, really, not wrong.

He takes a second before sighing and giving in, shooting her a mild glare that she ignores with another smile. They wait until the ambulance and Lieutenant Arroyo have pulled out and started driving before moving towards Detective Powell’s car. She tosses Tarmel the keys and moves to grab the door to the backseat. At the twin looks of bewilderment she shrugs, “Figured Bright’d be more comfortable up in the front, having someone he at least kinda knows in the back.”

It’s a surprisingly thoughtful gesture, as well as astute. 

He buckles himself in the passenger seat without a fuss, before pausing and turning to the backseat. “The man who died earlier today, the one who jumped from the building, did he have anything to do with this?”

Detective Powell looks surprised. “Yeah, actually, how’d you know?”

Malcolm shrugs, “Lucky guess.” 

They start to drive in silence, the house disappearing out of view through the mirrors. Rather than embrace the silence or, even worse, make a move for the radio, Malcolm decides to keep talking.

“JT...what does it stand for?”

Detective Tarmel sighs and adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “None of your business is what it stands for.”

“I bet I can guess it.” There’s the giddy hints of a challenge in Malcolm’s voice, finally something unobtrusive for him to latch onto.

“Please don’t.” Detective Powell already sounds resigned.

“Oh I’m going to, we’ve got a nice car ride ahead of us and I intend on making good use of it. So, Jacob Taylor?”

Detective Tarmel grips the wheel tighter.

* * *

By the time they’re pulling into a parking spot, Malcolm’s almost worried that JT’ll lose blood flow in his hands with how tight his grip’s gotten. He’s gotten Dani to laugh at most of his suggestions around his twentieth one, which has only spurred him on more.

JT pulls into the parking spot hard enough that they all jerk forward in their seats a bit. “Look at that, we’re here.”

Malcolm closes his mouth with an exaggerated frown, the name ‘James Tiberius’ having been only a second away from his tongue. “Another time then? I really think I was starting to get close towards the end.”

Malcolm has never seen someone lunge out of a car faster than JT in that moment. Dani snorts loudly from the backseat, taking her sweet time unbuckling. Malcolm climbs out of the passenger seat and holds her down open for her.

“What? It’s the least I can do for someone paying for my drink.” He says defensively at her raised brow. She rolls her eyes and smiles.

“You’re one of those people that just won’t let nice things happen to them, aren’t you?”

“Only one car ride and you’re already psychoanalyzing me? If you keep this up, you’ll get my tragic backstory out of me in no time.”

Dani’s smile grows. “As long as it’s not over a dead body, let’s not make that a habit.”

JT makes his way to the other side of the car where they’re standing and freezes, looking at the people sitting at the outside tables of the coffee shop. “Jesus, can this day get any worse?” he mutters, looking pained.

Dani knits her brows in confusion before she evidently also sees what it is that caught JT’s attention. Malcolm doesn’t get it. There’s people out at the tables, sure, mainly people his age more or less, eyes glued to their laptops or phones as they work, only stopping to take a sip from their drinks before they plough on.

“Relax JT, if we just don’t draw attention to ourselves she probably won’t even notice we’re here.”

Malcolm mouths ‘she?’ to Dani, but she doesn’t see it. A woman at one of the tables closes her laptop with a sigh of frustration and leans back in her chair, running a hand along her face. She pauses when she sees them, before smirking.

“Were you two going to come over here to say hi, or were you hoping I’d make a scene? Because I have no problem with making a scene right here.” 

There’s only about forty feet distance between them all, but she might as well have been yelling for all the dirty looks Malcolm and his law enforcement entourage were getting. JT slinks over like a kind of kicked dog, Malcolm and Dani following behind.

“So, how’s the case going?” She smiles pleasantly, sipping at her drink and looking at JT expectantly.

“We’ve been over this, we _legally_ cannot tell you this sorta thing. You’ll just have to wait.” From how worn JT sounds while saying this, Malcolm gets the feeling this is long retreaded ground.

“We got our guy, he’s in custody but we aren’t processing him just yet.” Dani relents. JT shoots her a look of utmost betrayal, while their interrogator beams.

“Thank you Detective Powell, don't worry I’ll keep all names out of the report for now.” She looks beyond satisfied at getting what she wants, before turning to Malcolm and giving him her attention.

“Ainsley Whitly, local reporter—”

“Local menace,” JT mumbles.

“—you might have seen me on your tv delivering the most accurate news in record time.” She keeps talking like JT hadn’t said anything, but her smile grows slightly like she’s proud of her status.

“Malcolm Bright, just moved here so I haven’t gotten the chance to get invested in the local news. I’m sure you’re great, though.”

“I’m the best there is. If you find the time to check out my reports, you’ll be up to speed in no time.” She turns to JT and Dani. “Don’t you two have to meet up with Gil?”

Dani opens her mouth, but before she can say anything JT goes, “How the hell do you know that?” causing Dani to shoulder him.

Ainsley looks innocent, “Well, if he hasn’t been processed yet, there’s probably something that came up, like him needing enough medical attention to be in the hospital. For example.” She’s decidedly not meeting either of the detective’s eyes.

“You know this from experience?” Dani asks wryly.

“A journalist never gives up her sources, especially if they’ll be taken away from her in the future. Now get going! I’ll look after your boy here, I’ll even make sure he leaves in one piece.”

That’s all the reassurance JT needs to start heading back to the car, completely ignoring Malcolm’s look of betrayal. He turns to Dani for support only to see her saluting him before starting to walk backwards for the passenger seat.

“Hey, do me a favor and remind Gil about dinner on Friday! I don’t want to hear another excuse about him needing to do more paperwork this time.”

Dani gives a thumbs up before closing the door and rolling down the window. To her credit, she looks genuinely apologetic. “Sorry, we really aren’t supposed to be racking up anymore overtime this period. Sooner we can get this case wrapped up the better.”

He still feels the slightest bit of betrayal, but he gets it. He just wishes they hadn’t left him with a stranger, no matter how familiar they are with her. He and Ainsley watch the car speed off in silence for all of thirty seconds before Ainsley breaks it.

“Go ahead and order whatever you want, I’ll cover it.”

He already knows she won’t take no for an answer, so he just goes inside and orders the cheapest thing he can that he knows he can drink. There’s no other exit inside the place, of course not, that’d be too easy for everyone. Even though he’s just met her, he knows Ainsley’s not a threat, but the sheer proximity to a reporter is just the _slightest_ bit stressful.

He comes out with his drink and an excuse on the tip of his tongue, but Ainsley beats him to it. “The police’ll be mad if you’re physically on tv, they can put two and two together as to who left you with me, so I can get you thirty seconds on air if you _really_ want but it’d just be better for everyone if you give me the details, everyone wins that way.”

Malcolm sighs in relief at the news before he stops. It’s not like anyone could make him go on tv, or even that he has to tell Ainsley anything. In fact, “Thanks, but I can’t tell you anything.”

Ainsley narrows her eyes. “Can’t, or won’t?”

“Won’t, but also can’t.” He can see that Ainsley’s not impressed by the response. “Look, there were kids there, I’m not about to say or do anything that could compromise their safety and privacy.

That gets her. Ainsley freezes, before leaning in and stressing every word, “there were _kids_ involved?”

She doesn’t look like she’s grilling him for her work anymore, so he relents just slightly. “They’re both alive, but they’re in the hospital. There was an attempt on their lives.” 

Ainsley leans back and takes a second to process this before reaching for her purse, rummaging through it for something. “Do you happen to know the parents’ name?”

Malcolm sighs in frustration, “I just said I won’t tell you anything-”

Ainsley holds up a hand to cut him off, the other one clamped around something in the purse. “You’re not from here, so I’ll do introductions again. Hi, my name’s Ainsley Whitly. In addition to being a reporter, I, along with my mother and girlfriend, spend my time, focus, and money on helping victims of human trafficking, kidnapping, and abuse. With a particular focus on juvenile victims. So, do you have a name for the parents?”

He takes a second to stare at her, she’s dead serious. So he gives it to her.

She pulls out her checkbook and turns to a blank check. She writes out the mother’s name and then the amount. Malcolm can’t see what she’s written out exactly, but with each time her pen loops into another zero he’s progressively more stunned.

Ainsley tears the check out and looks back to Malcolm. “You said there were two kids there, that “both” are in the hospital. I’ll drop off the check to their mother at the first chance I get. $200,000’ll cover any medical fees and get them a good foundation for school.”

Two hundred thousand dollars, it’s not a number that registers with Malcolm as one that someone can just _give_ without a second thought. From the sounds of it, this is far from the first time she’s done something like this. 

“So what were you doing to end up in that mess?”

The next time he was asked that question, he thinks he’ll just walk away. “I had an interview, I was going to start tutoring one of the girls in English...I wasn’t expecting any of that at all.” He looks at the ground, the silence and stillness vibrant in his mind despite the noise of the city. “They were so still, passed out like that, unable to breathe. It took me a minute to even figure out that they weren’t already dead. Dani—Detective Powell—had atropine in her medkit, but I was still worried I was too late, even while we were injecting them. They were just so still.” His voice is so quiet at the end that it’s hard to hear. 

Ainsley starts to speak, quietly as if she’s seeing what’s playing out in Malcolm’s head. “You saved them, you saved those girls’ lives.”

He doesn’t respond, trying to focus on breathing rather than to think more about what didn’t happen, but very well could have happened. The sound of paper rustling gets his attention, he raises his head to see Ainsley bent over her checkbook, about to write another one out. As soon as he realizes what it’s for he cuts her off.

“No, please, none of that.”

“Why not?” Her tone’s not challenging him, she genuinely wants to understand.

“Moral answer? I don’t need a reward for helping people, it was the right thing to do. Brutally honest reason? I don’t have a bank account and I don't want to just be carrying a check around with me.”

Ainsley thinks for a second. “Do you have a Paypal?”

Now there’s an eager challenge in her voice, she’ll find a way to pay him or die trying. He saves them both the hassle and just gives it to her. “But if you give me too much, I’ll just send it back until Paypal suspends us both.”

She laughs and pulls out her phone. After a minute, his phone vibrates with a notification. There’s $1200 he just received in his account. When he opens the app to see for himself, not believing the number, he sees there’s a note attached with it.

_Thank you for everything you did_

Malcolm feels a pit in his stomach, not at the amount, but for what he _didn’t_ do. He’s gone his whole life hearing his father say that nothing and no one in the entire world mattered except for them, and he let that influence what the lives of two children are going to be. They’ll go the rest of their lives knowing their father is still out there in the world, still alive, because of Malcolm’s damned power trip.

He sighs heavily and Ainsley notices his mood shift. She reaches out and takes his hands, holds them tightly. “Malcolm, hey, you did the best possible thing you could’ve. Two kids are alive that otherwise would have been. They’ll have the chance to be safe, to recover, and _grow up_ because of you.”

He’s stunned by Ainsley’s words, as well as their contact. This is the first person other than his father that’s gotten this close and personal with him in years. The level of comfort coming from a stranger should feel foreign or discomforting, but he feels safe. He trusts her, as scary as that may sound if he said it aloud. 

Malcolm clears his throat past the lump he felt, putting on a smile he doesn’t quite feel. “You’re pretty good at comforting people, you know that? How’d you get this good, I assume this sorta thing doesn’t happen to you often?”

Ainsley laughs, her grip on his hands tightening slightly as her head goes back. “No, you’re just special like that. It comes with the job, really. The “charity and helping people” one, not the reporting I mean.”

“How’d you get into charity work? You’re younger than a lot of activists I’ve heard about.”

“Well, my mother’s family has a long history of working closely with charities. But the two of us took a much more personal stake in it all when I was a kid. My brother went missing; he was there when mom and I left on a trip and gone when we came back, without a trace. We searched for weeks, working with the NYPD and offering a reward for his return, for information, anything. But...there was nothing. It was like he had never been there to begin with. Even though we never got any true leads, we still haven’t given up. With each person we help, each family we help reunite with their child, it’s like...there’s still a chance we’ll find him one day.” She pauses and lets out a shaky breath. Malcolm gently squeezes her hands and she smiles gratefully at him. “That’s actually how I met my girlfriend. She’s a lawyer for human trafficking victims and when she heard about our efforts she flew all the way out here to meet us. She’s _incredible_ at her job and is one of the most caring, compassionate people I’ve ever met. When she told us her story, how her older sister went missing when she was a kid so she put herself through law school to help others, to keep people that are loved and cared for from falling through the cracks of society and the system, my mother and I brought her on board without a second thought.”

Malcolm can see that tears are at the edge of Ainsley’s eyes and his heart goes out to her. He can’t imagine how painful it must be to have lost a sibling like that. To have gone decades without knowing if they were alive or dead.

She sniffs and pulls one of her hands away to dab at her eyes. “I’m sorry, I promise I don’t get like this every time I start talking about that.” She laughs quietly. “I don’t even know _why_ I’m telling you all this.”

Malcolm shrugs. “I asked and you told me the honest truth, no matter how much it hurt. You’re a journalist, after all.”

“What about you, what’s your story? You mentioned being not from around here.”

Malcolm exhales and makes a face. Where to start, or better yet, what not to include. “Well, I grew up moving around a lot with my dad. My mom died when I was a kid so he thought it’d be good to get us both a clean start. Um, played basketball for a season as a teenager, that went _badly_ ; there was a whole...thing with the aunt of one of my teammates that soured it for me. We went out to do laps on the track early one morning and almost literally stumbled onto her body.” 

Ainsley’s jaw drops. “Oh my god, really? She was...was she _dead_?”

He thinks about the way he spotted his dad looking at her as they were seated next to each other at one of the games while he was sat out on the bench. He thinks about how long it took for her to stop being able to scream when she was brought home, how it took him until that morning, hearing his teammate scream almost the exact same way to realize exactly who she’d been. “Oh yeah. She was _definitely_ dead. I never really felt up to playing again after that. So I just sorta started helping out my dad’s business and now...now I’m a full-fledged apprentice under him.”

“That’s cool, what do you guys do?”  
  
“...We’re liquidators.”

“Like the law term?”

“Exactly.”

“Huh...I’d never heard of that as a profession. You two good at your jobs?”

Malcolm smiles tightly, “Right now I’d say we’re up there as some of the best.”

Ainsley whistles, impressed. A phone buzzes and they both finally pull their hands away to check. It’s not Malcolm’s, his phone flashes the time and his lockscreen background, a picture of a bird he’d taken early one morning. He’s got 27 voicemails he still hasn’t listened to, but no new text messages. Ainsley types a quick response then sets her phone face down on the table.

“Sorry about that, I’ve got someone going to drop food off for me before I head into work.”

“No worries, I can leave if you want some time alone with them, it’s not a problem.”

“No no, you don’t have to do anything like that. It’s just my uncle.”

“I didn’t know you had an uncle.”

Ainsley smiles. “Yeah, I lost my dad when I was little, so I don’t remember what it’s like to have a father, but I like to think he’s kinda like my second dad. He spoils me some nights, bringing me actual food so I don’t have to leave the studio to grab a cheap bite to eat. He was the one who encouraged me to become a journalist too, helped me figure out what university I wanted to go to.”

“Sounds like you two are close.”

“Extremely, it was because of him I started to heal after my brother went missing.” Ainsley smiles. “Total topic change, do you have any social media?”

Malcolm shakes his head, but Ainsley doesn’t look too put out. “That’s fine, can I see your phone for a second then?”

“Any particular reason?”

“To swap numbers, so that we can keep talking. Only if you want to, no pressure or anything.”

Before he even can think about all the ways this could possibly go wrong, he’s unlocking his phone and passing it over to Ainsley, hoping she won’t say anything about his beyond pathetic contact list. He’s got his dad starred at the top, followed by a takeout place he’d had his second night in New York.

This is the most active day his social life’s had in literal decades.

Ainsley slides his phone back to him and he sneaks a peek at his contact list, now up to a whopping three numbers. On one side of her name, she put a microphone and on the opposite side there’s a television. 

“So you can’t forget me,” she smiles.

“Can’t, or won’t?” he teases.

“How about both?” 

He takes a sip of his drink, now lukewarm and winces at the taste. Ainsley’s lip twitches at the sight, but she spares him from a comment. 

“Hey, Ainsley, sorry to keep you waiting.” A man’s voice comes from behind Malcolm suddenly, causing him to choke.

Ainsley glances at him quickly but runs over to embrace the newcomer rather than help him. “No, no you didn’t keep me waiting, I had someone keeping me company. Thank you again for making food for me, you’re a lifesaver.”

“That’s what family’s for, angel.” His easy tone drops into something that could be called judgemental, “I’m not interrupting a date, am I?”

Ainsley looks at Malcolm and laughs at the idea. Malcolm, who wheezes out one more cough before getting himself under control, doesn’t know how offended he should be, before he remembers that Ainsley has a girlfriend.

“Definitely _not_ a date, he’s a friend of a friend. Just moved here with his dad so I wanted to give him some company for a bit.” There’s silence for a second before she realizes introductions are needed. “Oh! Malcolm, this is my Uncle Boots.” The way she says the name and the teasing smile she sends to someone behind Malcolm makes him think it’s an inside joke between them.

He shifts in his seat to look behind him comfortably and stops. He’s probably not too much taller than Malcolm when he’s standing up, but there’s something about him that just _looms_ . There’s a terrifying look in his eyes, a predator’s gaze—he’s seen it enough times in his father’s eyes and avoids mirrors some days in case it’s in his own eyes—but Malcolm blinks and all that’s there is a smile and a roll of his eyes directed at Ainsley.

“John.” He holds out his hand.

Even putting that sight down as just Malcolm’s mind overreacting from a beyond stressful day, he still eyes the hand for a second as if it’ll lash out like a snake. But he still takes it, hand faintly trembling. The grip is strong and warm, in contrast to how cold those eyes were.

“Malcolm, pleasure.” He gives a strained smile.

“Pleasure’s all mine, little Malcolm.” John’s smile, in comparison, is broad and genuine.

Ainsley looks between them both in confusion, before looking at the bag of food gripped tightly in John’s free hand. 

The hand still in John’s grip has only intensified in its tremors, and he’s not thinking it’s a trick of a tired mind that John’s eyes dart to their hands, then to Malcolm and his smile grows.

But maybe it is, because the next second John drops his hand and hands off the bag to Ainsley with a smile. He walks past Malcolm like that whole interaction hadn’t just happened and he embraces her warmly. 

“Have a good night at work, I’ll be watching your report.”

Ainsley hugs him back tightly, “Thanks, love you.”

“Love you too, angel.” He pulls away after kissing the top of Ainsley’s head, fondness clear in his eyes.

“It was nice meeting you Malcolm, you have a safe night now.” Just like that, John’s walking away, his back to Malcolm and Ainsley.

It somehow feels like a challenge, but Malcolm doesn’t know how to feel about it. His hand has stopped trembling and he doesn’t know if his legs would be much steadier if he tried to get up and chase after John.

He doesn’t know what Ainsley would do if she saw him run after her family, who’s supposed to be a total stranger to Malcolm.

He doesn’t know what he would do, or what John would do, if Malcolm managed to catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay with this chapter! I ended up having to deal with an onslaught of anxiety that kept me from uploading (plus exhaustion from protests), but I'm powering through it 😤  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, let me know if you did! Next chapter's my Personal favorite.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets can have such nasty fallout when they're found out, can't they? Of course, this may be taking it to another level.

As Malcolm shuts the apartment door behind him, he’s suddenly hit with exhaustion. It’s been a hell of a day. He’s all alone in his latest temporary home, but his heart’s still beating furiously and his stomach is churning. Rather than looking at any of the very likely reasons as to why, he instead puts it down to just not having enough to eat for the day, he’s probably also dehydrated. That absolutely has to be it. 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and blinks at the time, not even seven yet but he feels like it’s closer to three in the morning. Right under the time are three notifications, a text message that when previewed shows that it was sent by Ainsley, the missed call icon, and the ever familiar voicemail notification. He clears the missed calls before he can even register their volume and presses the voicemail, reading to get this over with.

“You have 19 unheard messages.” Yikes. “First unheard message:”

He pulls his phone away from his ear to put his voicemail on speaker phone and lets the messages play while he goes about his business.

“Malcolm! Dad here, just wondering if everything’s okay. It’s only two minutes past time so I understand if you’re running a little late, just let me know how far away you are so I don’t worry. It’s a big city after all.”

He opens the fridge and sighs, there’s a half empty bottle of peach flavored sparkling water and a small bottle of strawberry milk looking forlorn under the cheap, dying light of the fridge’s bulb. He grabs the sparkling water after a second of thought.

“Malcolm, it’s dad again. Still waiting on you to show up, fifteen minutes late really doesn’t sound like you, kiddo. But, this is why you have the phone, to let me know when things pop up. So, give me a call back. And let me know.”

There’s a couple travel sized things of cereal on the kitchen counter, a half-eaten granola bar probably from when they drove past the Carolinas, and a heath bar still whole in its wrapper. His stomach twists just at the idea of eating, so he just walks away. 

“I understand that it can be rough settling into a new place, you’ve always had a problem sleeping in the car on long drives, so if you’ve accidentally slept in, not a problem! Just _call me_ and we can forget this ever happened.”

The sparkling water’s lost its allure, he decides, setting it back on the counter. It’d survive being out of the fridge for a bit. He needs to take a shower.

He grabs a towel and a clean change of clothes, letting the messages keep playing. Even after shutting the bathroom door, he can still hear it.

“Malcolm, getting a _little_ irritated here. Mostly worried, of course, but I can’t help but wonder what’s going on in your head. You’ve never been one for acting out like this, got to say I’m a little impressed you’re getting into your teenage rebellion years this late, but don’t think this means I won’t treat you like a kid again if you act like one. It’d sure be awkward explaining to your landlord why you need to move out already, but if you miss being around your dad that much then who am I to discourage that?”

Malcolm runs a hand through his hair and lets out a shaky breath. He’d absolutely do it, take away every bit of independence that Malcolm’s managed to plead or be on his very best behavior for. He’s not sure what it would take for him to get it back a second time. The voicemail beeps again, moving on to the next one. Immediately he has a tight grip on his bathroom counter, like anything other than this painful hold will send him falling to the floor.

“Malcolm. Pick up your phone **now** or else.” His father’s voice is deathly sharp and cold, he hasn’t heard it dip into that tone in years, done everything he could to make sure his dad wouldn’t use that voice. 

He takes a deep breath and tries to slowly let it out, attempting to remember the half-faded memory of his high school guidance counselor helping him through an anxiety attack brought on when she’d mentioned the topic of college. Tries to think of his “happy spot”, a large stage with dim lights where no one is behind stage or on stage with him, and in the sea of seats beyond the stage there’s not one other person. He’s completely alone here. 

It’s an artificial peace he’s never had, but there’s something about imagining that spot, a place he’s never actually been, that helps his shoulders relax, his breathing slow. 

But then his phone beeps again, ready to move on to the next message, and that peace is broken. His eyes shoot open and before the voicemail can even begin to play he yanks the knob to turn the bath on, drowning everything out in a dull roar. After a minute of that, he turns it to the shower and turns it to the most comfortably cold setting it can be on. It helps, but not as much as the stage did. 

He enjoys the water, scrubbing the grime of the day both real and imagined away from him. Maybe if he just goes at his hands and nails hard enough with his cheap soap, he can forget that he almost took a man’s life. Maybe if he stays under the water until it becomes biting cold, he can forget how still and dead those children looked already when he got there. Maybe if he just lets the water bill run itself up into absurd levels, his phone will be dead when he comes out of the shower and it’ll be a blessed night of no calls and no texts.

Malcolm loves his father, certainly as much as his father loves him, but not having independence for his entire life, spending his days from childhood to now prepared to be in the air before his dad can even tell him to jump and his nights to be called over and find that there’s someone waiting with his dad, someone who will become a something by the end of his visit, its left him with an inescapable, sinking fear. He’s afraid of what he can do, what he’s done and has come closer and closer to doing to people as time goes on, but he’s almost more afraid of disappointing his dad. 

He’s let him down before—his continued lack of an actual bodycount is the ever-present elephant in the room—but he doesn’t know what will happen if he truly disappoints his father. The few times he’s come close, all it takes is that tone of his and some choice father-son bonding activities and then the last thing Malcolm wants to do is toe that line again, but if his father found out about the second incident of the day...what would he think? What would he say, what would he _do_ ? Would he understand Malcolm’s reasoning, a want to protect the children and make the monster suffer as much as he could given the situation? Would he sigh and shake his head, ruffling Malcolm’s hair like he’s a third of his age, before ensuring that Malcolm’ll give a thorough demonstration that he knows how to _truly_ cause someone agony? Or would he not look at him at all, abandoning him for lacking what his father had been so sure he had in him? 

The true fantasy of his mental stage is the emptiness; if his father hasn’t been in his line of sight, he’s in the other room, or he’s picking up groceries, Malcolm’s in school, or he’s just a phone call away. He’s never had the chance to be completely alone, not while his dad’s had anything to say about it. While he loves the silence of his stage, he doesn’t think he could handle being forced onto it.

But his head shoots up, cold water hitting him right in the eyes, as he remembers something. He wouldn’t be entirely alone, not anymore. Beyond the inherent pitifulness of having a food delivery service in his contact list, there’s a third name now, that goes beyond professionalism in the sidejobs he’s worked, the names and numbers written in a high school yearbook he never got to keep, never got the chance to even call. 

Ainsley.

Someone he’s only just met in no way rivals the emotional weight that his father has in his life, but she is _someone_. Someone nice, someone who wanted to talk to him enough to offer her number, someone safe.

Malcolm shuts off the shower, the remaining water dripping down suddenly beyond loud in the sudden quiet. He slowly breathes in, holds it, and lets it out. He can almost picture the stage if he closes his eyes, as that lingering extra tenseness starts to finally leave him.

A sudden beeping sound has his eyes opening as he groans in realization that his dad’s _still_ not finished. “Sorry about that, my boy, message must have been a bit too long and gotten cut off. Anyway, give me a call back when you can and let me know what you think! I can go ahead and set aside some time for us both, really it’s been too long since we’ve gotten the chance to really just _talk_. I love you, son!” 

Malcolm blows out a breath and looks to the drab ceiling for patience. His father’s tone made a significant change between voicemails, which never meant anything good. Not for him and especially not for other people.

If someone’s going to be killed, the least he can do is make sure their last moments are filled with watching the passive aggressive back and forth that would surely fall from his father’s mouth given his tone there.

He waits for the next message behind the door, clean clothes only partly put on. But there’s nothing, message nineteen ran its course and silence is the soothing balm of the aftermath. He looks down at his shirt, still bunched up about halfway from his stomach, and pulls it down, embarrassed. There’s no hesitation in opening the door now that there’s nothing for it to try to muffle, same for reaching for the phone itself, now down fifteen percent of its battery.

He sees the text notification again, but rather than answering it, he pulls up his phone’s browser and types ‘Ainsley Whitly’ into the search bar. The results are immediate. Articles, videos, social media accounts, even a Wikipedia page. He clicks on the Instagram link first and sees a blue checkmark next to the handle @TheAinsleyWhitly, apparently it means she’s “verified”. Her bio’s short too: “Daughter, Sister, Reporter, Activist. #bringthemhome”. He clicks on her most recent post, made tonight. She’s in a chair with a winning smile, as the caption reads “Live in five!!” It has hundreds of likes and dozens of comments, but he just swipes to the next one. It’s got a black and white filter, with Ainsley grinning and holding up two interlocked hands as she’s being kissed on the cheek by someone, presumably the girlfriend Ainsley had mentioned a couple of times. The caption here is just a series of hearts. He goes to see a third post only to have a pop-up inform him that he has to make an account. So he closes out of Instagram.

There’s still a level of curiosity he has that hasn’t even begun to abide, so he goes to her Wikipedia page. It has a lot more than he’d think the page of a local reporter would have. He barely glances at the early life or education sections, mostly scrolling through to see how much information there was rather than to see the information itself. In comparison to other sections, activism and personal life are sprawling. The activism section catches his attention first, featuring a picture of Ainsley speaking passionately at a podium with the caption “Whitly delivering a speech at a 2015 charity event towards the recovery of kidnapped children.”

He’s struck with the memory of Ainsley telling him that her girlfriend fights human trafficking in her career as a lawyer and that Ainsley lost her brother. Looking at the wet eyes of the photo that still stare intensely at her audience, Malcolm understands why such a subject would mean so much to her. 

He tries to remember if she told him what her brother’s name was, but he draws a blank. He glances briefly back at the remaining paragraphs of information left in the two sections, but swipes the screen to get him back to the start, early life.

He glances over the information about her parentage and ancestors, skipping to what he was looking for. Just over a paragraph in, there it is: Malcolm Whitly. Malcolm Whitly is a footnote on his sister’s page, saying that his disappearance during Ainsley’s early childhood inspired her to put her focus towards helping other missing children. But his name does have a hyperlink.

Unlike his sister, the other Whitly’s page is beyond sparse, only a few lines of information on the whole page. There’s one picture, of a young boy smiling up at the camera held in the lap of someone whose face is cut off by the camera. Though there’s nothing wrong with the image, other than it being of a child who had been missing for apparently decades, there’s something about his face that’s absolutely haunting.

It’s with a sense of growing discomfort that he notes the shared birthdate they have, the shared first name of their fathers. In fact, Malcolm’s almost sure that the two of them could pass as related if they had been in the same room. He closes the tab as soon as that thought comes to mind.

He can see why Ainsley didn’t tell him her brother’s name. Awkwardness aside, there’s something about this that doesn’t feel right. Like he’s seen something he’s not supposed to have. 

He means to plug his phone in, to put it away for the night. He means to go back to his room, lay down for several hours staring up and thinking until he finally dozes off. This is what he means to do, but it’s not what he actually does. Instead, without thinking, he types out ‘Jessica Whitly Ainsley Malcolm’ into a new tab. The first result is an article, published ten years ago. The title gets cut off before he can read the whole thing, so he just decides to click on it, intent on skimming it to sate this curiosity surrounding a tragedy.

“Grieving mother makes desperate plea: ‘I just want to be able to see my son again’” the article proclaims. The crying woman that must be Jessica Whitly really sells the emotional value of the headline, Malcolm thinks with no humor. He stares at her face for what feels like a micro eternity, not wanting to miss a single detail. While her son was the one missing, there was no doubt she was just as much a victim.

He tears his eyes away from the crying mother and glances at the contents of the article. He glances over what she said, “Whoever has taken him, you’ve won. I’ll give you all the money I have, all the money I don’t have. If there is anything in the world that you want that I can give you, I’ll hand it over in a heartbeat just _please_. I just want to be able to see my son again, to hold him and know that he’s safe, that he’s home.” and feels like he’s about to throw up.

Whatever sickening true crime inspired curiosity he’s got needs to stop now. There’s no answers or service that he can give to this family and using their grief as a way of feeding an interest, no matter how well-meaning it could be, feels like the lowest of anything that he’s done in his life. He catches the edge of a photo below the speech excerpt and knows that it’s most likely an ad and thinks about closing out the page. It feels like a betrayal of Ainsley’s trust almost, to go beyond just seeing what someone he’s met is like and honing in on her probable dead brother. 

But it feels almost as much like a betrayal if he chooses to look away now, so he scrolls down.

He stops.

He stares.

He’s...he doesn’t know how he feels.

He thinks he feels horrified, feels grief, disgust, maybe even rage. But as he looks at the image, not an ad at all, but instead the Whitly family: Jessica resplendent in a red gown, a young toddler Ainsley with a fist near her mouth held in Jessica’s arms at the waist. Next to Ainsley and his mother is Malcolm Whitly, grinning brightly. With one hand on Malcolm’s shoulder and another around Jessica’s waist is a face that Malcolm recognizes. A face that he would know anywhere: that of his own father.

Malcolm feels like within him is a hurricane whipping destruction around itself with its winds and unshakable size. But his heart is in the eye, totally still. While his mind races on the hows and whys, his fingers type out Martin Whitly and presses search. Articles and websites pop up: “Beloved surgeon believed dead, wealthy wife offers reward for information”, “Martin and Malcolm Whitly memorial service”, “Hospital names new wing after renowned surgeon who disappeared more than fifteen years ago”, result after result about a man that so many people mourned, the earliest date that he can find roughly dates back to the first year he really remembers, the end of elementary school and he’s the odd new face out. Malcolm can’t believe this. Has no choice but to believe it.

He closes his phone and slips it in his pocket. His breathing is steady and strong as he walks calmly over to the kitchen sink, before throwing up right in it. He heaves up everything in his stomach and what feels like everything else in his body, making it just as empty as his heart feels. He runs the water in the sink when he’s done, watching it clear itself out before shutting it back off. As he walks over to his dirty clothes and carries them over to the laundry bin, making sure to empty the pockets of their valuables, he begins to think and to plan. He can theorize on his father’s reasoning as much as he wants, but there’s only one way to actually find the truth. He’ll just have to ask him himself. 

Malcolm shuts the lights off and makes his way to the front door, stopping by his postcards. He stares at the mass of them for a long moment, his hand briefly twitching up towards them, as if to run his hand along them or tear them all down brutally, before he lowers it and keeps going. He shuts and locks the door behind him, starting his trek to his father’s own apartment with murder in his eyes as the scalpel he retrieved burns through his pants.

He’s just as calm outside his father’s apartment door as he was shutting his own, knocking twice before stepping back and waiting. The plastic, perfect smile reserved for strangers drops from his father’s face when he registers who’s at the door. It’s a look of absolute delight in his eyes and a smile of joy for the dutiful son visiting his doting father. Malcolm wonders if he’d give that same smile to Ainsley and doesn’t like any of the answers he comes up with.

“My boy! What a surprise, but a _welcome_ one! Come in, come in, don’t want you standing out in the draft out here in the hallway.” He puts a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder—just like in the picture— as he leads him inside, shutting and bolting the door behind them. 

His father’s always been a very physical and physically affectionate person, but now as Malcolm feels the hand, once comforting now an ever present weight, still on him as he’s led to the comfortable-appearing couch, he wonders how much of that was love and how much of it was his father keeping him by his side. He wonders if there’s a difference in his father’s mind.

It’s not until Malcolm looks around for a sound he hears, the faint noise of a woman talking, a newscaster from the tone of it, that his father lets go, walking quickly off to his room to shut the television off. He comes back dragging a chair with him, setting it down so close to where Malcolm’s seated that their knees are a hair away from touching. Maybe Malcolm’s just understandably on edge, but it feels like he’s boxed in, trapped until he’s let free. 

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure? Not that you ever need a reason to come visit, just curious.”

“I was wondering if you could tell me about my mother.”

“You-you came all this way to ask me about your mother? I could have texted this all to you, y’know. _But_ since you’re here...let’s see what to say...She’s an extraordinary woman, an absolute fiery force to be reckoned with when she’s wronged, but also gentle as a woman like her can be with those she loved.” His father looks wistful, running a hand along his ring finger seemingly without noticing.

“What was her name.” Malcolm says, voice quiet and flat.

“Malcolm, are you really telling me you don’t know your own mother’s _name_?” Voice distraught and askance, but with that teasing out underlying it. Malcolm could just let his question be passed off as a joke, that would be easiest. That would be comfortable. That would be what his father wants. Frankly, he’s having an increasingly difficult time caring about what he wants right now.

“No, I don’t. You know I don’t remember most of my childhood and it’s not like you made a point to use her name when talking about her. I just want to know.” Throw him on the defensive, but with an appropriate amount of pleading injected in to get it across as sincere, it’s a carefully crafted performance that he’s got to sell to his father.

As his father tenses, puffing up slightly in indignation, Malcolm waits patiently, trying to make his face as appropriately longing as he can while maintaining its genuine nature. His father deflates after a minute and Malcolm can call this victory his own.

“Jessica. That’s her name.”

It’s information he knows, but more importantly it’s information he should have _known_.

“You keep using contractions when you talk about her...Is it a contraction for ‘was’ or a contraction for ‘is’?” There’s nothing but open curiosity in his tone, but his eyes are burningly frigid.

“I-I’m sorry? I’m afraid I don’t quite understand the question, my boy.” His father leans in, their knees touching as he can make out almost every individual detail and microexpression on his face. There’s a small smile on his face as his eyes are ablaze with unforgiving intensity. Malcolm’s pretty sure this is his last chance to back down safely. He doesn’t even think to take it.

“What I’m asking you is this: why did you let me go most of my life thinking that my mother and your wife, Jessica Whitly, was dead?”

“Well, I never said she was dead, now did I?”

He wants to stand up, to start shouting or to throw things, or to have an all out tantrum. Maybe even call it making up for all the tantrums he may or may not have had as a child but has now forgotten. But instead he keeps his feelings close to him and contains them for a bit longer. His father can’t use what he can’t find.

“You never exactly disavowed me of the idea that she was dead, now did you? Just the opposite I’d say.”

His father doesn’t know what to say for a second, visibly thrown off by Malcolm’s near completely calm composure. “You seem to be handling this rather well,” he says with some suspicion. 

Malcolm laughs and shakes his head. “I’m really, _really_ , not. I’m just not thinking about it all right now because there’s one thing I need answered right now and I can’t go losing my head until I get answers about it. What I want to know is why. Why the hell did you do this, to Ainsley, to mom, to _me_. I thought they were dead, no actually, I thought my mom was dead, you left my sister out of the narrative completely.”

His father sighs and says calmly, soothingly, “Because it was what you needed-”

“Bullshit! I want a real answer.” His voice breaks on the last word, but rather than jump or prod at the exposed weakness, his father snaps.

“It is a real answer! Why, why does anyone do anything? Why did I marry your mother, why did I decide to live a life of murder, why did you never once try to turn me in to the authorities, why did _you_ almost kill that man with your knife when you were just a child?” Malcolm’s breath is caught in his throat and his heart races as his dad leans forward, cupping Malcolm’s cheek with one hand in such a gentle touch. “Why? Because it was what was best for us...because it was what we needed, more importantly it was what we wanted. All these years, what I’ve said and what you’ve known, that the two of us are undoubtedly one and the same, is why I ‘did this’. You and I were both able to live as we were meant to like this, everything I’ve done has been for what’s best for us both, best for you.”

He doesn’t know what to say. An apology is on his lips, that he understands why and that he’s sorry for losing his temper. His dad had only lost his temper when doubted, but he was back to being as caring and loving as ever when it came to reassuring Malcolm. He plans on just stomaching this, getting this done and over with and letting the weight of the revelation slowly fall off over time in favor of acceptance. But then, he sees something in his dad’s eyes. The way they dart over Malcolm’s face, like if he doesn’t memorize every part of Malcolm’s face, he’ll disappear completely. And Malcolm realizes that understanding doesn’t automatically equate to forgiveness.

“You were afraid.” It falls out of his mouth stilted and his father’s eyes still. Malcolm keeps speaking, realization coloring his tone. “You _are_ afraid. But not of people taking me away from you, no, you’re afraid of me leaving you. You’ve _always_ been afraid of me leaving you.”

His father laughs in disbelief. “Afraid? Of you leaving me? Now, honestly Malcolm you’re being ridiculous. You’re a grown man and you can do what you want. I’ve always been very encouraging of your independence and I’m not _quite_ understanding where you’re getting these ideas from.” His tone takes on a warning quality as he gives Malcolm a stern look. The hand that had only seconds ago seemed so warm is now cold as ice. 

Awareness of his father’s charm doesn’t translate to immunity, he’s known this and he still fell for it. Malcolm jerks his head sharply away and lets loose. “What you said about this being the best for me, how I was meant to live...that wasn’t the kind of kid I was becoming, was it? I wasn’t measuring up to what you wanted so you decided to make sure that I would have no one in my life to model myself after but you.” His father opens his mouth and Malcolm cuts him off without regard or hesitation.

“No! Stop trying to tell me I’m wrong. You _never_ let me have anyone in my life but you! Field trips, after school clubs, even getting a damn yearbook, you never let me have any of them as a kid because they were times where you couldn’t control me. When I joined basketball without telling you, you murdered one of my teammate’s family members. When the few friends that I had pooled their money together and got me a yearbook my senior year, you threw it out because it “took up too much space” and this isn’t even _starting_ with the absolute tantrum you threw when I signed up for college classes. Even now, I can’t be a little late without you yanking away the personal freedoms I’ve had to _earn_. I’m an adult, but one who’s always been treated like a kid, getting the little independence I have taken away from me when I so much as think about having a life outside you.”

“Well, I can see you’ve gotten yourself rather worked up over this. What I’m really curious about right now though, is how? How did you even find out about your mother and Ainsley?” It’s like trying to get through to a brick wall. But the brick wall has ears and knows what you’re saying, it just thinks you’re wrong and it knows better. 

“I met someone.” If his father can divert the conversation, then so can he. Throw his father a bone, a mystery contact that Malcolm has. who his father has no idea of their identity and watch him throw himself into a frenzy trying to tear it apart.

“Who.” It’s a demand, there’s no mistake about it. Like the very cause of this problem, Malcolm’s unwilling to give up Ainsley’s name. Keeping secrets about their family seem to run in their family, he thinks humorlessly. His father’s waiting with impatience, tightly coiled like a snake about to lash out at whatever helpless animal is before him. Malcolm’s no prey, though. He throws someone else in front of his path instead.

“John.” He doesn’t know the man’s last name, but it’s something. Something he can use to distract, deflect, keep his father from digging at him until he gets what he wants. But instead of latching onto the information and pressing him for more, his father leans back, pale.

“You met-you met _John_.” The name means more to his father than it does to him apparently. There must be millions of Johns in the city, in the state. But he gets the feeling that maybe, just maybe, it’s the same John. It could be anything that gives him that suspicion. The intense unease he felt around the man, the equally strong reaction shared by his father...or maybe it’s the fact that the man acted like a father to Malcolm’s own _sister_. Just a suspicion, though.

“So what if I did?” The challenge is clear in his voice, but his father doesn’t even react to it. He slides his chair back and begins pacing around the apartment, muttering to himself. It’s a baffling change, but Malcolm takes full advantage of it and gets up, steps away from the couch and angles himself towards the door. He’s got a tall, wooden table and a couple dozen feet between him and the door, but makes him feel more at peace.

“Should have never brought you back here, you weren’t ready for it. Things were going so well too...” Malcolm overhears snippets of wistful ramblings and looks in amazement at his father. He shakes his head in disbelief and starts to head to the door.

“And where exactly do you think you’re going?” His father’s stopped midpace to look at him harshly.

Malcolm shrugs nonchalantly. “Out, I need some alone time after all this.”

His father looks at him in disbelief before sighing and shaking his head. The smile he has on is not a nice one by any definition. “No, no, no. You don’t get to just leave and have ‘alone time’ right now. You’re staying right here until I say otherwise. This is a pretty big deviation you’ve just dropped on me, son, and it’s pretty careless of you to think you can just walk away from it all.”

“I don’t really get how the ghosts of _your_ past, the consequences of _your_ actions fall onto me. So, yes, I am leaving. You know how to find me.” He finishes dryly. 

“I _do_ know how to find you. I know your address, I have your key, and I can track your phone. There’s nowhere for you to go my boy but to stay here with me, which is exactly what you’ll be doing until I tell you.”

Malcolm casually slides a hand into his pocket. “You said it yourself, I’m an adult. I’ll just be enjoying that independence you claim to have given me.” He pulls out the scalpel and without thinking stabs it deep into the wooden table. He mirrors his father’s smile as he says, “Don’t wait up for me.”

He’s surprised he’s able to make it out the door, out the building. He walks quickly to build some distance between himself and his father in case he does decide to chase after Malcolm. But chasing’s not really his father’s style, it’s much more likely that tonight will be for licking wounds and regrouping. The days that follow will just have to be spent walking on a knife’s edge, waiting for the inevitable. It won’t be quick and it won’t be painless when it does happen, he already knows that much. 

Malcolm looks at his phone and wants nothing more than to smash it against the sidewalk, or take its battery out and throw it into the nearest body of water, just to make life harder on his father. But it wouldn’t actually do anything. It’d just be a temporary inconvenience, a momentary sense of victory, before he remembers just how hollow it really is. Throwing his phone wouldn’t do anything but just affirm how alone Malcolm really is. He walks and walks and walks, feeling his legs start to burn as he passes through more and more of the city, taking twists and turns he’d never seen before. When he finally stops to look around, he has no clue where he is. Which is perfect. He’s just learnt the harsh reality of trusting and relying on the known, maybe in the unknown he can find just a minute of peace. 

He pulls out his phone and unlocks it, immediately setting it on ‘do not disturb’. No missed calls, voicemails, or texts yet. He doesn’t know just how bad of a sign that is, but he doesn’t much care, either. He looks at his contact list, the delivery place, his father, and his _sister_. He doesn’t know her like he should, there’s a lifetime of secrets and separation between them and that’s not even addressing that she doesn’t even know who he actually is. But she’s his sister and against all odds, her name sits at the top of the small list. He can’t get rid of his phone, not now when he has the chance to talk to his sister at _any_ point. He never did respond to her text message. 

He calls the number, putting the phone up to his ear before he can really think about. The tone drones in his ear as the call tries to connect, once, twice, three times, before it’s picked up. 

There’s what sounds like a muffled yawn before he gets to hear a sleepy “Hello?” The voice that picks up isn’t Ainsley. Malcolm’s train of thought screeches to a halt. He didn’t think about any part of the conversation before calling Ainsley, let alone think if Ainsley isn’t the one to pick up. The voice sounds too young to be his mother and if it’s Ainsley’s cell he called...the person on the phone is probably Ainsley’s girlfriend. He saw her name mentioned in Ainsley’s Wikipedia article, something that starts with an ‘E’, but he can’t remember what it was right now.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” She sounds more awake now, but still absolutely exhausted.

“Sorry, didn’t realize how late it was. I’ll-I’ll call Ainsley back in the morning. Sorry for waking you up.” He hangs up before she can even say anything. 

He looks at the time, just past midnight. He must have been walking a lot longer than he had thought. He half expects a call back, but why should he get one? Neither of them have any reason to call him back at this time of night, he’s barely more than a stranger to Ainsley.

Thinking about the reason why gets him biting the inside of his cheek in frustration, so he keeps walking. Focuses on the ground, the night sky above, anything else he can use as a distraction. He walks as the burn in his legs turns into a throb and then into sharper pain. When he spots a chain link fence that seems about as clean as the ground, he sits down against it, feeling his back and knees crack as he does. 

He takes a second to catch his breath before it hits him. His sister has a girlfriend. He has a _sister_ and she has a girlfriend, a job, a full adult life. He starts laughing. He doesn’t care how loud he is, or how his chest starts to hurt with how hard he’s laughing. He only starts to calm down when he realizes that at some point he had started crying. Malcolm rubs at his eyes and face in embarrassment, grateful that no one was around to see him or hear him. Just because he found out multiple life shattering revelations that meant the life he lived had been in some part an absolute _lie_ , that didn’t mean he had to go and make a scene about it in public, even if his only audience were probably rats.

There’s a sudden sound nearby, maybe a can hitting the ground or being kicked, but it has him shooting to his feet. He’s not afraid of anything that could be out there, he knows where the monsters are, but there are better places for him to come to terms with an identity crisis. He never did finish off his sparkling water. Malcolm dusts himself off and starts to pace and plan.

He can head back to his apartment tonight and in the morning, he’ll try to call Ainsley again. Maybe he’ll see if he can see her in person because there’s some things that you just can’t say over the phone. A better phrased version of “hi I think I’m your missing brother and here’s the non-murder highlights of my life in the twenty-odd years I’ve been missing” may be appropriate over coffee and pastries. Or at least, it might be more appropriate there than over the phone first thing in the morning. He starts to mumble possible starter sentences to himself, trying to make it seem as mundane as possible. 

It’s not until he runs through maybe the third script in his head that he stops and realizes what he’s doing. Aside from decidedly _not_ walking back to his apartment, he’s omitting his dad from the narrative. He’s beyond hurt, betrayed, and furious at his dad, for everything that he’s done and done to Malcolm, but that’s not what this is about. Even with all of this mess, everything that’s come before it and everything that’ll inevitably come after if his dad’s left to his own devices...Malcolm doesn’t want to see him in jail, not like this. Just because his dad’s betrayed his trust on such a defiled level, that doesn’t mean that he can bring himself to do the same.

He’s his father’s son and not even something like this can undo all those years together all at once. He still loves him, even through the hurt, no matter how much he does not want to be anywhere near him at the moment. He sighs and runs a hand over his face. He should really get back and just fall into bed. There’s another sound nearby, what almost sounds like a shoe scraping against the ground. 

He’d long since stopped pacing.

He doesn’t even manage to turn around halfway to see whatever or whoever’s out there before there’s a strong arm wrapped around his stomach and another wrapped around his throat, one squeezing all the air out of him, the other keeping any from getting in.

Malcolm lashes out wildly, feeling the back of his foot hit against a leg with each hit, but it’s doing nothing. He squirms and moves as best as he can, finally ripping one arm free and swinging it wildly behind him and hopefully towards the face of his attacker. He lands a solid blow against what feels like a cheekbone and hears a grunt of pain as his arm falls, palm scraping against facial hair as it does. 

His vision’s going spotty as his still pinned arm tries to get into his pocket. If he can just reach in there, he can incapacitate his attacker and get away. They’ll probably lose interest if he gives some tangible evidence he’s not an easy or good mark. 

His arm and lungs burn from the exertion, he’s just barely able to slide it into his pants pocket...only to feel nothing.

_Oh._

That’s right, he’d...he’d left the scalpel at his dad’s apartment. _In_ his dad’s furniture really. He doesn’t have the air to laugh, or the time to fully appreciate the humor, before he’s finally blacking out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the chapter delay! I had this about 85% completely edited when my university started back up and swamped me with work. Chapter 5 will be up Very Soon ;^)
> 
> if you enjoyed this chapter, consider leaving a comment or a kudos! if you didn't like the chapter, that's fair, but consider leaving a comment anyway :^)
> 
> Until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> There'll be a chapter a day uploaded for this, because I need validation or i Will die. But in the meantime!! this was for the wonderful prodikill, who i hope enjoyed chapter 1! i loved all of your prompts and i hope you enjoy how i incorporate the other two later on, there's a Lot of emotional suffering to come ;^)
> 
> If you enjoyed this, consider giving it a kudos or comment! Like I said, I crave validation.


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